Paths Diverging, Paths Converging
by kazeno
Summary: The winds of fate will blow them around, apart, and back again...


paths diverging, paths converging

paths diverging, paths converging

by Denna

She stands on the balcony, staring out at the night.

_Wondering, wandering, where has my heart gone?_

_ _

__Staring out at the stars, a millions lights above. She knows she has lost him, knows _she_ has gained him, her golden knight gone to the golden sorceress. They will shine together, gold to gold, bright to bright. She evens out some of his faults; he evens out hers.

_Perhaps in a millions days, perhaps in a million years..._

_ _

__Pale fingers grasp at the smooth metal of the railing, as if to grab at the present, hold it in place. But time, like sand, slips through her fingers, and she is left with nothing but memories, distant recollections of a thing that _had_ been, tha tonce was, and nothing more to remember it by. Time is already slipping away; in one week--_one week!_--the one she lost will be gone forever, joined to the other golden one. What will the joining forge, she wonders. A golden child? Perhaps. 

_My heart will forget, but then_

She knows she cannot stay; knows that she cannot watch them live together, love together, without going mad. She will leave, she knows that. Perhaps a transfer to Trabia, or one of the more outlying regions... or _something_. 

_What would love mean, if not remembered_

_ _

__But first, she must attend the wedding. Watch, as the one that she lost through her own stupidity is taken by another. Her friends will both be happy; one, because he will marry his loved one; the other, because his friend will be happy. And she? She will be the same as always, quiet and congratulating, while inside the crying at his leaving and the quiet joy at the fact that he will finally be happy coexist within the shell of her body.

_What would love be, if not unforgettable_

_ _

__Oh, to be older or younger--older, that she would know how to deal with this; younger, that she wouldn't care so much about it.

_So leave, and so will I_

_ _

__No--that was a lie. Even when she was a child, she had been drawn to him. It drove her to overcome her usual shyness to ask his name, to be his acquaintance, friend, underling. All through it she has strived to keep to her aloof state. She does not treat him as a _man_; he does not treat her like a (mere) _woman_. Perhaps that is why: he doesn't think of her as female.

_Leave to heal my wounds_

_ _

__She looks up. It doesn't matter. Not ever; not now.

_Leave to seal my heart..._

_ _

__High above, the impersonal stars gaze down on an elegant face framed by hair glowing silver in the moonlight. They watch her as they have done mankind for thousands of years, and they leave her to her grief.

****

It was entirely possible that the workers perched on the slowly regenerating skeleton of Trabia Garden, thousands of miles away, almost lost their footing when the Balamb Garden loudspeaker system rattled the notes of the Fourth Balamb Wedding March off the elegant structure of the Garden and stunned every single wedding guest in attendance.

It had to be grand, of course. The wedding of the (great) Squall Leonhart and Rinoa Heartilly _had_ to be grand. Thye saved the world, after all. And for that one big day, the Rinoa supporters got out in full force, and left a trail of tied and gagged anti-sorceress activists all through Balamb Town and Garden.

The ceremony was held in the Balamb Garden Quad. Selphie Tilmitt, head of the Garden Festival Committee and also elected head (by unanimous vote) of the "Squall and Rinoa's Wedding Committee" almost busted an artery planning the whole thing. She _did _noticeably fray some nerves, notably those belonging to a certain Irvine Kinneas, who, as her boyfriend had to stay by her the whole time. Selphie Tilmitt did _not_ work well (or at least quietly) under pressure.

Such was the ruckus that nobody noticed when, that morning, the bride, bridegroom, four friends, three not-quite friends, a couple of semi-adopted parents, and one elated Galbadian girl vanished for about an hour. The amount of messages on Selphie's handphone almost hit the hundred-mark, though.

So the wedding proceeded. The bride was all aglow; the bridegroom fidgeted somewhat, but managed to hold his excitement in--not that there was a lot of it. Squall Leonhart was neither an easily excited nor nervous man. The vows were exchanged, the kiss got underway in a quad full of cheering people, and the couple (and close to a thousand guests) headed for the food. 

All in all, it was a fairly successful wedding. Oh, Irvine flirted a little too much, and got slapped by Selphie, and Zell got drunk and embarrassed himself, but the bridegroom and bride (now husband and wife) showed up the next morning happy (in Rinoa's case, anyway; who knows what Squall thinks anyway?) and a little pink-faced, especially when Irvine innocently asked about 'last night', everyone know that it'd be all right. The wedding party could be a disaster, the food could stink, but as long as Squall and Rinoa were all right... then it was a success.

And even Seifer would agree.

****

_A gil for your thoughts._

The moonlight shines through the windows and full on her beautiful face, illuminating the high cheekbones and quiet blue eyes. Blue, like a pond--a still pond to quench the flames in his eyes.

_What?_

There is quite a possessive look in his eyes, glimmering faintly there behind smoldering gray-green fire, she thinks.

_Your. Thoughts._

_ _

__He watches her covertly while pretending to think, admiring her elegant beauty.

_I was thinking about you._

_ _

_Oh?_

_ _

__She knows there is something else glimmering behind those eyes, something she recognizes. Regret? Grief? Longing?

_Yes of course. What do you think I was thinking about?_

_ _

_About her._

_ _

__They have spoken about this before, and he has once requested that she not do so. The subject is touchy, she knows, but she had to broach it.

_No I wasn't..._

_ _

__The words lack fire; lack certainty.

_Yes you were. Regretting?_

__

_No!_

_ _

__Violent protest. Also lacking fire. She nods.

_Just a little, then._

_ _

__He scowls, handsome face contorting.

_Rather deep thoughts for a bride on her wedding night. Aren't there things that we're supposed to do?_

_ _

_We've already done them. You want to do it again, is that is?_

_ _

__The gentle reminder and question makes him blush. He looks so cute when he blushes, she thinks. Arrogant and abrasive he may be, but sometimes he can be downright gentle.

_Are you worried that I don't approve?_

_ _

__She presses gently, pushing him.

_Do you?_

_ _

__She laughs, silvery bright.

_I'm not jealous of her, if that's what you mean._

_ _

_Even when you know I love her more than I do you?_

_ _

_Even when._

_ _

__She sighs.

_You know, you could still go to he... it's never too late._

_ _

_And leaven you alone?_

_ _

__He sounds faintly melancholy.

_No. It's... too late for that. I've got you. And whatever there is--was--between us, it's one-sided. I know it._

_ _

__She does not think so, but she keeps that to herself.

****

There were many things said about Squall Leonahrt's decision that fatal day, both good and bad. Granted it nullified the Galbadian threat and stopped the Galbadian army headed for Balamb Town dead in their tracks, but it also held a risk of sacrificing one of the best SeeDs in Garden. Commander Leonhart thought it was an acceptable loss. Quistis Trepe did not.

So it was that the aforementioned SeeD-at-risk went to undertake a grueling mission of climbing up the back wall of a building to assassinate the Galbadian president, and so it was that Instructor Trepe followed him as backup--without anyone's knowledge. Seifer was an accomplished climber, but a significant amount of luck was also involved in his safely traversing the maze of windows without being seen.

Quistis had no such luck.

So when she was spotted on the 23rd floor, the young woman tried to fight her way free, but fighting is hard when you're dangling from a windowsill by one hand. There was nothing below her but 22 floors of empty air. Nobody bothered to look where she fell, because by then the president was already dead by Seifer's hand, and word was spreading quickly. Nobody wanted to be in the way of the Estharian forces when they barged in.

Quistis was buried in a small, private ceremony near the lighthouse on the cliff where Edea's orphanage was situated. The memorial service was just as grand as Squall and Rinoa's wedding, so many years ago. Again, the quad was thronged with people. Again, the deceased's good friends vanished beforehand, this time to hold a private little memorial session. Squall gave a speech, and when he was finished, there wasn't a dry eye in the crowd. It was such a rarity to see Squall Leonhart showing much emotions--life with Rinoa had mellowed him out a little, but not _that_ much--that whenever it happened, you couldn't help but feel affected.

Seifer didn't attend the funeral. He was later spotted in a Deling bar, proposing toasts to the memory of Quistis Trepe, saying that 'she wouldn't have wanted us all to be unhappy'.

Well, different people have different ways of dealing with grief.

****

He meets her again the day after the funeral. The hangover is pounding in his brain; the grief is clawing at it. Wandering down the beach in the soft evening light, wreathed in a haze of loss and pain. He doesn't notice her until he is almost on her.

She is sitting on a rock, staring out at the sea. The sea was always Quistis' element, as wind is hers, as fire is his. The rock is unofficially "Quistis' Rock". The blond instructor was often spotted here, watching the sunrise, watching the sunset. 

And now she is gone. 

He comes weaving down the path, eyes half-shut, to lean against the rock. Many times has he come to join his beloved here, to stand with her and watch the sunrise, watch the sunset. And now she is gone. Another stands on the rock, another, hair picking up golden highlights in the light of the setting sun, pale skin given life by the same. He recognizes her, of course, knows the face engraved in the darkness behind his eyes every time he shuts them.

_What are you doing here?_

_ _

__Harsh, perhaps, but he is in no mood for comfort or kindness. Deal with her grief anyway she might, but the rock was Quistis', Quistis' and his. Nobody can have it!

She turns, looking at him. She knows he is there, has known since his form first showed itself at the beginning of the path. He knows she knew he was there. Hands clasped behind her back, she looks at him, and speaks.

_Watching the sea..._

_ _

__Where did she learn to speak? He thinks harshly, and feels a twinge of guilt. Whatever, as Squall would say. He doesn't care. He doesn't care.

_Get off _her_ rock._

_ _

__Perhaps recognizing the tone in her voice, the pain behind that, and the reason behind _that_, she stands, and steps off. He remains, panting as if he had just run a race.

_You're not the only one grieving, you know..._

__

__Perhaps she hopes to offer reassurance. Perhaps she wants to help. But he isn't in a mood to be helped.

_Oh, no, you grieve too, right? Come on, admit it! You were always jealous of her, weren't you? _

_ _

__It isn't true, of course. None of it is, and something inside him knows that. Yet something else needs to lash out, and she has become the unwitting victim.

She takes a step back, and another, until her back is against Quistis' rock. He pins her to it, hand on the sunwarmed rock beside her face, body angled to block her way out. Trapping her.

_Isn't it? Oh, I know, I've seen the way you look at her. You hate her, don't you? She's perfect, the way you'll never be, and she's got everything you never had, and she's good, and she's kind, and she... and... she's..._

_ _

__...Dead. Isn't that what he wants to say?

He lets himself sink to the ground, sobbing into his cupped hands. The anger has run out, leaving despair and pain in its wake. Eyes shut; he does not see her raise a hand to her face. Does not see her blink rapidly, mouth opening as if to say something, then shutting as she thinks better of it. Does not see her turn, leave.

Does not see the tears in her eyes.

****

When SeeD number 15136, listed in the records as one Kazeno, Fujin went AWOL the day after Quistis Trepe's funeral, nobody noticed much. They were all busy with their assorted ways of dealing with grief. Although just an instructor, Quistis had touched many hearts in her dozen or so years of serving with SeeD.

It was only when she failed to report back at Trabia Garden following the five-day holiday she'd been granted that her commander realized something was wrong. Five days after Fujin vanished, the message went around to the other Gardens that a SeeD had gone AWOL, and that they should watch out for her. Other than that, nothing was done. SeeDs going AWOL weren't _that_ rare, after all.

****

_...Perhaps in a million days, perhaps in a million years_

_My heart will forget, but then_

_What would love mean, if not remembered?_

_What would love be, if not unforgettable?_

_So leave, and so will I_

_Leave to heal my wounds_

_Leave to seal my heart..._

_ _

****

She stares into the window of a shop in Esthar, and her reflection stares back. How long has it been since she has left, she does not know. A day? Two? A week? Time holds no meaning for her anymore. She has traveled from Blaamb, taking the trains to Fisherman's Horizon, then trekking across the railway bridge to Esthar, where she entered the city and vanished among the local population.

Now, she walks back out, feeling a need to stand in the wind, to let it blow over her slender form, cooling, soothing. She needs it to help her forget, as she thought she did years ago, but his words have ripped her shields asunder, and she needs to rebuild them.

From a hill to the north of Esthar, she looks out over the city, looking but not seeing. The view means nothing to her. She has come her for the wind, and now it swirls around her, toying with her hair, her clothing. It is night, and the stars watch her as usual. Silence surrounds her like a shroud, deadening all sound as she tries to forget.

Down below, the wind winds itself around another figure standing there, waiting. Waiting, for courage to return. Waiting, for a sign. Waiting, for _something_, something that even he does not know. And now it has come. The wind approves, he feels. The wind tugs at his bangs, at his coat, at his pants. Tugs him towards her. It approves, he knows.

He waits a moment for the words to rise to the front of his mind, words that he needs to say. He steps forward.

Above the hill, the stars smile down kindly.

****

_...And hope that we shall meet again_

_For hope is all I have._

_ _

_Paths diverging, paths converging_

Into wholeness again blending 

_Where they meet do hearts collide_

_And forge anew in dusk's blue light._

_ _

I'm back! Hah! After a prolonged episode of writer's block, I finally wrote this little piece at school. Took me a week. That's how slowly I write. This could be read as a sort-of protest against the Quifer invasion, I guess. shrug I just thought it would be fun to write something like this, and I did it. I wrote the poem myself. It shows. (that is to say, it sucks) Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to playing FF6 and wondering just who Gogo is.

-kazeno


End file.
